Prose

The Valley of Weathered Hearts

The valley of weathered hearts and vagabond dreams is where I was headed when my mother died in 2015.

3 min

I left my self at the shores of frustration.

In search of my true salvation.

Driven by the love of elation.

Shadowed by my fear and consternation.

No time left for mental masturbation.

Full throttled vibration.

Understated, unrated, undercooked maturation.

Destiny is my creation.

Done with—someones else’s verbalization.

Enriched by inspiration.

Taking it down with perspiration.

Pillars of spiritualization.

Dripping from the tears of experimentation.

Rhythm-less rhymes of orchestration.

The conductor has left the podium—the hum of yesteryear echoes in the valley of weathered hearts and vagabond dreams . . .

A small note shows itself,
alone and naked
in ‘self’ immolation.

D. Paris 10/2015 tribute to my Mother's death in 2015

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